


Right here, waiting

by Fatale (femme)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:48:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22640536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: Jaskier combs Geralt's hair.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 37
Kudos: 548
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Best Geralt





	Right here, waiting

**Author's Note:**

> a ridiculous story about ridiculous men

Wordlessly, and with more amusement than the sight probably warranted, Jaskier watched Geralt curse softly and run his comb through the snarls of his hair for a solid twenty minutes. An hour ago, he had grumpily wandered back to their campsite caked in what could only be described as _sludge_ , his hair a soggy bird's nest above his lovely head. Jaskier had had to busy himself unpacking their bedrolls to avoid laughing out loud. When he got done setting up for the night, he settled next to the fire, where Geralt still sat. He had managed to take care of the river sludge, if not the hair.

Jaskier brought his waterskin with him and pulled the stopper, still watching Geralt carefully. He had to admit, It felt like a gift to be offered this, the opportunity to see Geralt undressed, laid bare, cursing a blue streak to make a well-bred lady blush.

“Would you like some assistance?” Jaskier finally asked, sipping his water. Though camping was not his forte, Jaskier did have to admit that it offered certain pleasures: that being that he could be as loud as he wanted while he and Geralt fucked. It was a situation that had begun out of desperation mixed with an unhealthy dollop of loneliness, and neither had seen a particular reason to stop in the intervening years. But when they did find themselves coming together, it was clear to all parties that they were doing so just as friends, friends who occasionally traveled together for months and regularly partook in the pleasures of the flesh exclusively with each other. It worked best if neither of them talked about it.

“I can handle it,” Geralt said, giving his tangled hair another desperate tug.

“Of course,” Jaskier murmured, watching the way the firelight played off the thickly corded muscles of his forearms. It was only when Geralt brought out his knife, angled down against the grain of his glorious hair, that Jaskier sat up fast enough to fling his drink all down his front and said, “WAIT!”

He scuttled across the space between them and snatched the knife out of Geralt’s hand. “Do you just cut off everything that annoys you?”

“Is there another way?” Geralt asked, looking genuinely puzzled. 

“Oh god, of course,” Jaskier said with a sigh, sitting back. “Come here.” He gestured at Geralt, who did not come as ordered, possibly because he did not take orders and also possibly because he was a great big prat. 

Jaskier grabbed his arm, pulling Geralt back into the open vee of his legs, and taking his long hair into the hand. He reached over into his pack and pulled out a fine-toothed comb that he’d long ago procured through less than honorable means. It was made of pale ivory with intricate carvings gracefully arcing over one side and was almost certainly used to remove lice, but Geralt didn’t need to know that. He began by working his way from the bottom up with the comb, being careful and taking his time.

“Where did you learn how to do this?” Geralt asked, voice gruff, as Jaskier took his hair and combed it out by sections.

“I’ve enjoyed the company of quite a few ladies of means in my day.”

Geralt snorted. “And you combed their hair?” Geralt’s expression did not actually change but Jaskier could hear the smirk in his voice and he did not appreciate it. He yanked his hair a bit harder than necessary and was rewarded with a terse grunt from Geralt. 

“Not that it isn’t extremely fetching,” Jaskier said, continuing, “but pray tell, how did you end up with this hairstyle that I have only previously seen on young maidens?”

“It was how Vesemir suggested I style it. I used to wear it down but he told me wearing part of pulled back would keep it from obscuring my vision.”

Oh, and that was -- _oh_. Well, now Jaskier felt like an asshole. 

As long as he had known him, Geralt had an annoying habit of letting life just sort of _happen_ to him. Jaskier supposed that was what occurred when most of the choices in your life had previously been taken away. He seriously doubted that it had occurred to Geralt that he _could wear his hair another way_. He became an orphan because his mother abandoned him. He became a witcher because Vesemir demanded it. He killed monsters for coin because that was what he had been taught to do.

As far as Jaskier had seen, the only thing Geralt had done for purely selfish reasons was to bed him. And Geralt did not want or need his sympathy, so it was best for Jaskier to leave the trap of his past alone and forge a brand new path straight towards other disasters. But, still. This was such a small thing.

“There are other options,” Jaskier said, feeling a little like he was searching for a sharpened blade in the pitch dark. “We could try some of them if you’d like. Maybe a braid would be more practical.”

A muscle in Geralt’s jaw twitched, and Jaskier continued to pull the comb through the strands. The knots were finally loosening their grip and Geralt’s shoulders lowered along with them. Once he’d gotten Geralt’s hair completely smooth, it shone like silvery silk in the moonlight and Jaskier quickly plaited it, neat and tidy, and not too tight. He leaned over Geralt’s shoulder to peer at him. Some of the shorter strands had escaped, framing Geralt's face. “Aren’t you handsome,” Jaskier said softly, watching Geralt's lowered eyes, his sooty black eyelashes sweeping across his pale cheeks. 

His heart sped up. _Oh no, we’ll have none of that_ , Jaskier thought and mentally slapped himself. _Get it together, man._

“Tomorrow, we can try another style, and another one after that,” Jaskier said, all business once again. “See which one you like best. It’s your choice.” He stood up to shake the cramps out of is legs and Geralt stood, following close behind. Jaskier brightened. “For reasons that I will not divulge, I even know how to do an extremely elegant up-do.”

Geralt stopped him with a hand to his wrist and Jaskier turned back, surprised. 

“Thank you,” Geralt said, and lifted it, pressing his lips to the palm of Jaskier’s hand because he _lived_ to defy all of Jaskier’s most deeply held wishes.

“Well, _fuck_ ,” Jaskier said, letting his eyes fall closed, already tumbling down that deep, terrible chasm that he suspected was love. And the worst part, the absolute terrifyingly gutting part – was that he had the sneaking suspicion that he had been there all along. He grabbed Geralt’s hand and led him to the sleeping roll. “Tomorrow, will you let me braid ribbons into your hair?”

“No,” Geralt said, sounding quietly appalled. 

“Flowers?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“ _No_ ,” Geralt said, but he sounded like he was trying not to laugh. 

Life offered limitless choices, though Geralt might not always have seen them. And for better or worse, when presented with all those choices, both of them seemed to continuously choose each other. That had to mean something. 

Jaskier settled in next to Geralt, huddling close for warmth. 

He had time to figure it out, to step back and see the larger picture of what they meant to each other. That was good enough for now, the time that the fragile promise of tomorrow with Geralt yielded, and the tomorrow after that, and the tomorrow after that. He wouldn’t waste that particular gift. He _would_ eventually figure it out.

Getting Geralt to let him braid flowers into his hair, though, that was Jaskier's first fucking priority.


End file.
